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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply